Prince
by KimiruMai
Summary: Set during the Trunks/Android Saga. Bulma muses about the irony of having a Prince in her home, while Vegeta contemplates the meaning and significance of his lost title. Oneshot.


**A/N: Just another random oneshot. Accidentally inspired by a very old prompt of the Blue and Black community. **

**Review, ya?**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**~KimiruMai**

* * *

**Prince.**

* * *

She had waited so long for her prince charming. She had been willing to scour the globe and find the Dragon Balls at any cost, just so she could feel that complete-ness that only comes when one has found their soul mate. And oh, was she ready. She was so ready, ready for her fated one.

Well, she did not get her wish. Shenron did not bestow upon her the most elegant prince she had ever laid eyes on, the kind that you only saw in the movies. He did not bestow anything upon anybody except for Oolong's "most comfortable women's underwear". Well, Oolong could keep his underpants, for all she cared. She just wanted somebody to make her happy. And for a while, she had that.

A long while, actually.

Yamcha wasn't exactly what she would classify as "princely". In truth, he was exactly the opposite of it; a desert bandit, a perfect bad boy. Something about his dangerous attitude thrilled her, made her think she loved him. She even thought for a long time that she could keep loving him, even when the smallest things he did could make her infuriated enough to dump him. On and off relationships weren't unusual, no, but they broke up so often...surely, after ten years, that wasn't supposed to still be happening. They were full grown adults now, and he hadn't even so much as mentioned marriage.

Maybe Bulma wasn't entirely ready to settle down, but couldn't she have a husband and still go on adventures? Was it that hard for him to bind himself to her forever? Was he that afraid of commitment, or did he just want to be able to leave when he pleased?

Either way, Bulma wasn't happy. This time, when she called him over to CC, he had done nothing. This time, when she told him that it'd be better to call it quits, she meant it. This time, she knew it wasn't ever going to be the same with him.

And she was okay with it.

Now, what to do with that condescending jerk, that Prince of Saiyans.

_He_ certainly wasn't the Prince she was expecting. He was a thousand times the bad boy - no, Bad _Man_ - that Yamcha was. He was downright villainous, as bad as a person could possibly get without being Frieza himself. He intrigued her, she'd admit it, and after living with him for nearly a year, sometimes she couldn't help thinking that Goku was right, that there was good in him.

He was demanding, as a Prince should be. He was arrogant, prideful, and often angry, the perfect opposite of those Disney princes that little girls dream about meeting one day. He was bitter about his past, displeased with the present, but oh, so sure about his future. He knew what he wanted, and he would stop at nothing to get it. It was this feature, she thought, that caught her attention; as her mother often said (and boy, when she says _often_...), any man who showed that much dedication to something was definitely husband material.

That wasn't to say that she would ever consider marrying him, or even forming an intimate relationship. No doubt, he was undeniably handsome, with a feral beauty that Yamcha would never seem to have, but, considering his charming personality, that was as far as it would ever go. She liked to think that they did have a _certain_ type of relationship, though; let him deny it all he wanted, but Bulma was absolutely positive that, somewhere along the way, they'd become friends…or at least, something of that nature.

It was a while after their final breakup that Bulma realized that Yamcha would forever be dull in her eyes with someone like Vegeta around. A desert bandit seemed so...so cliché, so pathetic in comparison to the conqueror of worlds, so petty compared to a man who fought for his life daily. What, she asked herself, was so interesting about a man - no, he'd been a mere _boy_ at the time - who had gone around living off of greed and stolen goods, who's main purpose in life was to be happily rich, when you had someone who had been fighting a war since age five to compare him to?

Five. A five year old Prince, a mere child, in the hands of the person - no, the monster - whose very name sent horrible chills down her spine. It made her sick, made her heart ache, made her want to reach out to him, but no. He wouldn't accept that. He wouldn't accept pity. It didn't matter if it wasn't pity at all. It didn't matter to him if it was empathy or admiration. Pity was all he could see.

He was so strong, the very epitome of strength, and he held the weight of his entire world on his shoulders without even letting anyone see how tired he was, how his muscles ached.

She didn't really know how she could possibly help him, or if she'd be any help at all. She didn't know if the little bit of strength that she did have would be enough to make a difference to him, but oh, how she would die to have a chance at it, if only he would let her.

"Woman, you're staring at me."

She blinked, coming out of her thoughts, and realized that yes, she had been staring at him. Her cheeks took on a gentle pink hue, at which he quirked his eyebrow, and she quickly brushed her bangs out of her face, as they had fallen into her blue eyes. "Sorry," was all she said, but she didn't look away.

She had finished her meal a while ago; she hadn't been very hungry, and her small portions were probably the only reason she could ever finish before him, ever. Surprisingly, she noticed that he was no longer eating either; how long had she been staring?

Vegeta frowned and cocked his head subconsciously, and a hint of a smile twitched at Bulma's lips. His animal-like reactions to things were a bit adorable, she often found, and she thought that perhaps it was because he didn't actually know he was doing it. "What's the matter with you?" he demanded.

She blinked, startled. "Nothing...why?"

His frown deepened, and his dark eyes narrowed. "You've been really quiet the past few days," he said suspiciously.

Bulma paused, mouth slightly agape, and said, "Have I?"

"Yes, you little banshee, you have."

She couldn't help how pleased she was that he had noticed something about her that she herself hadn't even noticed, though she hid it well. Had she really been musing about him for that long? Had his past been bothering her for that long? She couldn't have said when it started to be a frequent topic on her mind; it had sort of eased its way into her thoughts.

"I'm sorry," she said finally. "I've just been thinking about a lot of things."

"Like what?" he said, still sounding skeptical.

It was her turn to frown. How was she supposed to explain that she'd been thinking about him? She couldn't lie; he'd see right through her. Bulma was a terrible liar, and Vegeta was perceptive. There was no getting around it.

"Nothing important," she finally settled on saying.

"Onna," he said, his deep voice sending a small shiver down her spine, "has anyone ever told you that you're a horrible liar?"

See?

"Many, many times," she sighed. Bulma picked up her dishes and stood, dumping them in the sink before heading up to her bedroom, leaving the Saiyan to stare after her quizzically.

* * *

Vegeta was never a person to dwell on things, unless they consisted of revenge, beating someone, or avenging his people. Those things were pretty much his entire existence; he didn't know where the female would fit into such things.

He wasn't quite sure how he felt about her. Sometimes, it was almost as if he enjoyed her presence, as if he _liked_ her, but other times, she infuriated him to a point of wanting to wring her neck...and yet, every time he told himself to just do it, he couldn't. Every time he pictured his large hands around her fragile neck, something inside him cringed and shrank back...

And he just, couldn't, do it.

He was a Prince, after all, and as a Prince, it was his duty to be cordial to his hostess, even if said hostess made him want to blow something (namely, Planet Earth) sky high.

His title, Prince, had come to mean nothing over the years. No one but Nappa and Raditz had ever even acknowledged the fact that he was indeed Royalty; people had only called him Prince Vegeta because they knew there would be dire consequences if he was addressed otherwise.

Oh, but that wasn't true.

His title had been abused, so horribly that it made his skin crawl just to think of it. He remembered the word sliding fluidly off the lizard tyrant's foul tongue, how the monster had always said it so very slowly, as if savoring the taste. He remembered the broken bones and the bruises; how he always tried never to cry out, and his mouth would bleed from biting down so hard in attempt to hold them back; how those slimy fingers would hold his head in place while the Ice-jin licked off the metallic red liquid. He remembered Frieza's purple lips fluttering against his cheeks, whispering, _Prince, Prince_.

He had come to hate the word unless it was spoken with utmost respect.

He didn't know if he liked the way the Onna had stared at him. Her blue eyes had been so...reading, as if unraveling his flesh to get a better look at his insides. He knew she was lying, oh yes, he knew. He knew that whatever she'd been thinking about had something to do with him, and his curious nature was just begging him to find out what it was.

He ignored it for days, pushing his body past its limits and enduring the Woman yelling at him to be careful. He ate, trained, ate again, trained again, three times a day every day, and when he came out of the GR, the only think on his mind was sleep.

It was here, in his bedroom, where he was haunted, those whispers of _Prince, Prince _still roaming freely in his nightmares, keeping him awake. What little sleep he got was always interrupted; never was there a night that he didn't bolt upright in bed, sweating and panting, his heart thrumming quickly as he rested on the verge of panic.

It was for this reason that he once again found himself a victim of insomnia, roaming the dark halls of CC silently. He was bored, tired, and, dare one say, lonely, but the Woman was not awake to argue with, and he would never admit to wanting her company. Hours later, around 1:00 in the morning, he leaned his back against the wall in the corner of the kitchen and slowly slid to the floor, propping his arms on his knees and resting his head, his dark eyes burning like a cat's in the dark room.

He would realize that he had fallen asleep when he awoke to the sounds of footsteps.

* * *

She sighed, exhausted, as she shuffled into the kitchen, her fluffy pink bathrobe untied and open to reveal a massive grey t-shirt and blue pajama pants adored with ducks. Her feet were clad with fluffy slippers that were a shade lighter than her robe, her hair tied in a sloppy pony tail, eyes half lidded. She rubbed one eye with the butt of her hand, sighing again and opening the refrigerator. Pulling out the tea pitcher, Bulma reached into the cabinet and pulled out her favorite mug, filling it to the brim and heating it in the microwave.

He watched her silently, realizing that she didn't know he was there. She didn't turn on the light, the only thing that kept her from stumbling blinding in the dark being the light from the refrigerator, which she had left open. The soft, bluish light graced her features gently, and he noticed how tired she looked. He scoffed inwardly at this; what could this pampered heiress possibly be kept awake by?

The microwave beeped quietly, and Bulma took out her mug, adding a sprinkle of ginger and stirring it. After deciding that the ginger had been mixed in evenly, she dropped the spoon into the sink and slid into one of the chairs at the round kitchen table, sighing again as she sipped her tea. Then she looked at him.

His eyes widened for a second as he realized he was wrong; she had known he was there the entire time. He had no idea how this was possible, since he hadn't made a single sound, and she couldn't sense Ki.

"Can't sleep?" she asked.

He lifted his head and frowned at her.

"Me neither," she said, as if answering for him. Her voice softened suddenly. "I keep dreaming about the androids."

He still said nothing, but she carried on as if he had. "I know you guys have probably got it down, but...I don't know. That kid never said if you were all Super Saiyans when it happened. I guess with you _and_ Goku, I shouldn't really have anything to be concerned about, but..." she paused, and sighed again, "I don't know. Sometimes I...I just worry."

"You shouldn't," he said simply. It wasn't a reassurance, his tone of voice made sure of that; he was merely stating a fact, and she knew it.

"Yeah," she said, "but you can't really help worrying about people you care about, you know?"

"No, he answered gruffly, laying his head down on his arms again, this time facing the wall. "No, I don't."

"Hmm," she murmured. "In a way, I envy you that."

He turned to look at her again, eyebrow raised.

"Sometimes I really wish I didn't have to worry at all," she said. "It's not that I wish I'd never met them or anything...I guess I just wish I could be sure of the outcome. It kills me not knowing."

"Hmph," he frowned. "What's the fun in knowing the outcome? It takes the suspense out of the battle."

Bulma chuckled. "You would think that way, Prince of all Saiyans."

He tensed slightly, thinking she'd been mocking him, but when she smiled warmly at him, his posture loosened, and his mouth twitched at the corners.

"So, Prince," she said, sipping her tea again, "What's keeping you up?"

"Old nightmares," he answered.

She looked up sharply, as if she hadn't expected him to answer at all. Bulma swallowed, staring at her mug, which was normally reserved for coffee, awkwardly. "I'm sorry," she said finally.

"I don't care," he said.

She nodded without glancing up, expecting this answer. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He scowled at her.

Bulma chuckled. "Yeah, didn't think so. Can't help asking, though."

He stood suddenly and went to sit down at the table with her, one hand resting on the smooth wood while the other propped up his chin. "Why can't you?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I guess I worry about you too, sometimes."

Vegeta stared at her, mouth slightly agape. "Why?" he asked incredulously.

Bulma smiled sadly. "You really don't know what it means when people care about you, do you?"

He looked so confused, like he wanted so much to get the meaning of her words. She couldn't fight the pain that suddenly weighed heavily on her very soul; her heart ached for him, even with all he had done.

"I don't understand," he said, an almost gentle frown on his lips.

Bulma put down her mug and placed her small hands over his big one. Vegeta's brow furrowed, but, to her delight, he didn't pull away. "I care about you, Vegeta," she said, "believe it or not. I don't want to see you hurting, and I definitely don't want to see you die fighting those androids."

He drew his hand away at that, bringing both of his hands up to fold his arms. "As if some tin cans could get the better of me," he scoffed.

She smiled again. "Yeah, I know. Do you want some tea? It'll help you sleep."

He blinked, then nodded, only half relieved at her sudden changing of the subject. Unfortunately, that didn't answer the question that was now burning in his mind.

"Why _do_ you care?" he asked finally.

She glanced at him as she heated his tea in the microwave. "We're friends, aren't we?" she asked.

He frowned again. Sure, they had grown closer over the past year, but Vegeta still saw the concept of friendship as foreign. "No," he answered.

Bulma laughed. "Aw, come on, Vegeta. You know you like me."

He watched her skeptically, one thick, black brow raised. Yes, perhaps he did like the female...a little too much for his liking. He shouldn't have given her the time of day, and yet...

"Here you go," Bulma said, sitting back down with two mugs full of tea in her hands. Vegeta took one and sipping it slowly, still watching her. Bulma drank her tea calmly, eyes downcast, not even noticing his sharp gaze. They sat in silence for what seemed like a long time, when suddenly, Bulma opened her mouth and let out a giant yawn. Vegeta yawned too, twice as big, and Bulma laughed. "Guess yawns are contagious for Saiyans too," she grinned, then yawned again. "Well, I'm going back to bed," she announced, standing.

Vegeta stood with her, stretching his arms over his head, which distinctly reminded her of a big, lazy tiger. He made no move towards the stairs, even after Bulma turned away to dump their mugs in the sink. Thinking he wasn't going to follow, she said a quick "goodnight" and headed for the stairs, tying her robe as she went.

"Onna," Vegeta said, catching her wrist.

Bulma turned to look at him, a bit surprised. "Yeah?"

"I _will_ defeat them," he said.

Before he could protest, Bulma walked back down the two steps she had climbed and wrapped her arms around his neck. He let out a small "oof", completely caught off guard.

"Of course you are, silly," Bulma said, smiling into his neck. "I'm just being a woman, that's all. We always worry about our guys." Her smile widened when he didn't respond, and she chuckled. "Good night, Vegeta."

She let go and turned back towards the stairs, but the hand that had yet to release her wrist yanked her back. Quite suddenly, Bulma found herself very close to a very dangerous man, their noses almost touching.

"Prince Vegeta," the Saiyan said, his dark eyes glinting with fire. He could not for the life of him explain why he wanted to hear her say it. The title had been used against him in so many ways...why was this different?

"Prince Vegeta," she repeated, slightly confused. "I thought we were on a first name basis now."

He paused, his unintentionally strong grip on her wrist loosening. "We are," he said after a while.

"Alright then," Bulma said, clearly pleased. "Vegeta."

He nodded. "Vegeta," he affirmed, and his hand slid from hers.

He was plenty princely without the title, they decided.


End file.
